


My head is like a loaded gun

by crookedspoon



Series: Let your fingers do the talking [28]
Category: Batman: Arkham Knight, Batman: Arkham Knight Genesis (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Choking, Frustration, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, POV Jason Todd, Pining, Praise Kink, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 14:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: His first weeks with Deathstroke are painful. Not physically – Slade's blows are love taps compared to Joker's crowbar treatment – so much as they are painful to his pride.





	My head is like a loaded gun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> Written for "Master/Apprentice" at sladejasonweek.

His first weeks with Deathstroke are painful. Not physically – Slade's blows are love taps compared to Joker's crowbar treatment – so much as they are painful to his pride. His body remembers the moves Batman taught him, but in the year he's spent trussed up like Christmas turkey and used like a pinata, his muscles have atrophied and balk at his commands. Building his strength back up is agonizing work, because it's agonizingly slow.

Not even the shocking "holidays" spent under Harley Quinn's tutelage had sped up the process.

In a fight, skill is essential. Agility helps. With Slade, you need everything you got and then some, even when he's going _easy_ on you. Jason hates being patronized like that. It means he's not good enough, not worthy of being treated as an equal.

Jason doesn't need to be good enough. He needs to be _better_ than good, better than Slade. Better than Batman.

It's not the guns or the knives or the other fun toys that makes a fighter, Slade says as he pummels Jason with his bare fists. It's your body, trained to execute your will, that does it. Everything else is just an extension, to increase your reach, your effectiveness. But first, your body has to obey.

"Your body is a weapon," Slade says, pulling Jason off the ground to give him another chance at trying to land a hit on him. "Use it."

So Jason pushes himself. He has to hone his reflexes quick unless he wants to relive Calendar Man's barrage of punches, and Jason thinks his face deserves a break from looking like a bunch of grapes, all purple and bruised. His nose deserves a chance to heal.

Slade is patient with him, because the money he makes minding Jason is a pretty sum, but that doesn't mean he makes a show of being supportive. To Slade, Jason plain sucks. No two ways about it.

"Is that all you can do? Even my useless kids evade quicker than that."

It shouldn't mean anything, it shouldn't, but it stings nonetheless. It's not like Jason needs Slade's _approval_ or whatever, but he's frustrated because he used to be _better_ than this, faster and stronger and so much more skilled. Forcing his body to block maneuver after maneuver and use Slade's moves against him, something he used to be able to do in his sleep, is like relearning to walk. 

(Which Jason had some experience with after his broken ankle had healed. Not a fun one, either.)

Jason doesn't need Slade's approval; all he needs is his training. And the money he wires from Bruce's account is enough to secure him that. Jason is his own master now. He doesn't have to _please_ anyone anymore, doesn't have to punch criminals to make Batman proud, doesn't have to tell Joker what he wants to hear just so the pain will stop. 

All he has to do is become strong enough to make Batman pay for what he did to Jason.

Slade can help him achieve that.

So Jason insists they go round after round, even if his muscles are aching for a break, even if he eats dirt in thirty seconds flat. Once Slade grows bored with this endless repetition, he shows Jason just how pathetic he really is.

"Ready to give up yet, kid?" Slade asks, one hand pressing down on Jason's shoulder blades, the other twisting Jason's arm behind his back and reopening the gunshot wound on his bicep. A souvenir from his Arkham breakout, when Slade was sent to kill him.

"Why?" Jason pants, sweat stinging his eyes. "Need a breather, old man?"

Slade releases him and hauls him up by his hair. Jason glares his defiance and clenches his fists, preparing for another go, another punch to the face that never comes but that Jason nevertheless has come to expect. Conditioning is hard to shake.

Instead of feeding Jason's fear or his ambition, Slade shoves him forward off the mat. Jason's legs wobble, but he manages to stay upright.

He suspects Slade switches to gun training when he wants to give _Jason_ a chance to catch his breath, because Jason won't accept downtime. His legs may be quaking and ready to collapse, and he may barely be able to lift his trembling arms, much less a gun, but as long as his will is keeping him upright, he's good to go.

"Stubborn brat," Slade has called Jason on more than one occasion, when Jason wouldn't stay down or take no for an answer, and if Jason hadn't been mistaken, he'd detected a hint of pride or something in that ballpark. From that vantage point, the grip in his hair almost became a fond ruffling. Not that Jason had necessarily been straining his ears for positive remarks, but when you train under Batman for an extended period of time, you become accustomed to understanding what's _not_ said.

The trouble begins when Jason starts reacting to things that are neither said nor implied. 

Slade's body is warm against his back, bracketing him when he guides Jason's legs closer together and steadies his aim. He leans close so his voice is low in Jason's ear, buzzing through him like the lower settings on Quinn's electrostimulation device. Jason suspects his purpose is to ground him and keep him focused, but that is far from the effect it has on Jason.

Jason not only grows self-conscious this close to Slade, he grows _hard._ As if he needed another reminder of how his body is not his own anymore, how Joker had infected it, made it weak and then broke it. He tries to ignore it, same as he ignores every other ache that inflames his body, and hopes that Slade doesn't notice either. 

At night, however, when he collapses under the combined weight of all his aches and pains, he is powerless to stop the onslaught of unwanted images forming in his damaged head. Powerless even to seek relief from them.

Heavy arms lying by his sides, he tosses and turns to escape the desire of wanting to touch himself, of wanting _Slade_ to touch him, even if it's a hand in his hair, around his throat, or steadying his own grip around a deadly firearm. The months spent locked away beneath the old Asylum were isolating and cold, and his body, now warming up with its proximity to Slade, is starving for contact.

"If I didn't know any better," Slade says, almost effortlessly as he's subduing Jason in another intimate chokehold, "I'd say you don't want to get out of that cell your head's still trapped in." 

Jason's body convulses, thinking it's drowning again. _Just another hour of this, and then it's electro shocks._

"You don't want to fight back, because that only gets you hurt more." 

Relief comes too soon as Slade releases him. 

"Newsflash, kid. There is no one holding you back anymore. Not Batman, not the Joker, and certainly not me."

Jason collapses on top of Slade, paralyzed, gasping for breath. The feeling of drowning, that was just a memory. It's over. He's free. He's freed himself.

He doesn't ever have to go back there.

He doesn't need to. The prison is not only _in_ his mind, it _is_ his mind. And there is no escaping that.

If he can't trust his mind, and he can't trust his body, what exactly is there left to rely on?

Jason notices he's still on top of Slade, head resting against Slade's neck, back supported by Slade's broad chest, legs trapped loosely. His heart knocks him back to awareness.

He rolls off Slade as fast as he can, which is not fast at all. His body feels heavy, cumbersome. Resisting. Like it didn't want to move away at all.

Jason hates how weak he is, hates how difficult it has become to concentrate, to _not_ imagine Slade's beard scratching his neck before he sinks his teeth into it when his rough voice is scraping him raw from the inside; to _not_ expect Slade's hands to brush over the length of his arms, over his sides, down to his hips when he is teaching him how to aim, shoot, and kill with a rifle, something Batman never would have done; to not _want_ Slade to strip him first of his clothes and then of his control when he has him pinned to the floor again.

Because that's what it comes down to: control. Jason, the contractor, is in control of the situation. This whole arrangement is happening on his terms. Slade has not picked him out himself to become his apprentice, Jason is paying him to train him. That puts Jason in the driver's seat. 

The fucked up thing about it is that for the first time in his life, a part of Jason doesn't want to be in it, at least not where this matter is concerned. It just gives him weird ideas. Like wondering about the types of things Slade would do for money. Or more precisely, the types of things Jason could order him to do.

"Focus," Slade slaps Jason, because Jason allows him to do it. "In a real fight, you'd be dead already."

Many times over, Jason knows. "What good is your training if it won't prepare me for a real fight?"

Slade snorts. "What good would killing you now do me, kid? It's like stepping on a kitten, and it'd cut off my funds."

He offers Jason a hand. Nice try. He'd just turn it around on Jason and chide him for not reading the intent in his body language. Well, guess who paid attention in class?

"Aww, just admit you like me too much to snuff me yet."

Still unsettled, Jason moves as if to accept, then swipes his leg at Slade, aiming for the knees. Slade leaps out of range before it can connect. Would have been too easy anyway.

Despite his body's protests, Jason gets to his feet. The wound in his left shoulder _throbs_ and blood is trickling down his arm, but Jason ignores it. He ignores the more insistent throbbing between his legs even harder and attacks. With Slade, any opening you see is one he wants you to see, but Jason needs the diversion. Perhaps a well-placed blow to his stomach will take his mind off the discomfort in his pants. Surely Slade can do him that favor.

What he gets instead after a series of feints and parries is a twisted elbow and a chop to the neck. Jason crashes to his knees before Slade yanks his right arm back and Jason's face meets the floor again. With his grip, Slade could easily break Jason's wrist and pop his shoulder out of its sockets with nothing more than a quick flick of his own wrist.

Ordinarily, Jason would have thought of a way to roll out of this hold without dislocating his shoulder and executed it already. Ordinarily, his anger – at Slade, at Batman, at himself – would have propelled him forward into his next move.

Ordinarily, he would not have let arousal cloud his mind. He would not be viewing this as a compromised position. He would not be wanting _Slade_ to view it as such.

He's trembling. His breath is coming in short bursts. It's only the awkward angle of his neck and arm that puts a strain on his lungs, making it hard to breathe, he tells himself.

It's certainly not the tension in his spine, a tension that keeps his hips in check and his free hand firmly on the ground. A tension paradoxically resulting from the desire to touch himself, to buck up in search of some much-needed friction, or worse, to grind back against Slade.

"Need help with that?" Slade asks, hoisting Jason back up but keeping a firm grip on his wrist. "You might want that under control."

"Whuh?" Jason's a little disoriented when Slade crushes him against his chest so he can't flee. He didn't just offer to help him with what he thinks he did, did he?

"Your little breathing problem. You panic whenever something cuts off your air supply."

Oh, that. Nevermind then. "I don't panic," he spits with more force than necessary. 

Slade's free hand snakes around Jason's throat and crushes his windpipe. "Wanna put that to the test?"

And okay, Jason does seize up, but more because Slade's beard scratched the shell of his ear when he said that and Jason's cock jumped in response. He half-expected (or more like, wished) that Slade would bite him, but he doesn't. He just breathes against Jason's neck while he chokes him out like the fucking terminator that he is.

Jason's can't move. He's not thinking about being trapped again, tied to his goddamn chair and tipped over backwards, not this time, but he is struggling to breathe.

"Focus," Slade says again. "Don't surrender to your situation. Concentrate on your body. On using it to improve your situation."

Body, gotcha. Throat squeezed, check. Mouth snapping for air, check. Lungs burning, check. Gee, that was helpful. Jason totally knows how to get out of this now.

He could probably tap out, except that he's too stubborn to do that. He's fairly certain Slade won't let him come to permanent harm. Permanent meaning death. Slade probably wouldn't care about inflicting a bit of brain damage as long as he still gets his money.

Wait. Tap out. His left arm is free, hanging loosely and uselessly by his side. He flexes his fingers. There's feeling back in them again. 

Slade is kneeling on one knee behind him and keeping them both upright through the tension he exerts on Jason's body. Which means his balance is easily upset.

Gathering the last bit of his strength in his arm, he jabs his elbow into Slade's side and uses the element of surprise to grab the back of Slade's neck and throw him over his shoulder.

There is barely any impact, because Slade rolls into his fall as if he'd expected it, and Jason rolls with it. Unlike Jason, however, Slade continues into a crouch, ready to spring at the slightest indication of a threat.

None comes. Jason once again lies on the ground, gasping for sweet, sweet air. If this is becoming a pattern, Jason is going to demand a refund.

"We'll need to work on that," Slade says, because although Slade is fluent in who-knows-how-many languages, praise will forever not be a part of his vocabulary. 

He slowly rises to his feet, which indicates that he is done playing Jason's games and no longer indulges him by viewing him as an opponent. He drops a towel on Jason's face and tells him to wash up.

He is almost out the door when he adds, nonchalantly, over his shoulder: "And make sure to take care of your _other_ problem while you're at it," leaving Jason to wonder just what he meant by 'other problem.'

Surely he couldn't mean... With his last bit of strength, Jason drags the towel from his face and lifts his head to inspect his body. A flash of heat shoots through him when he spots a rather unmistakable tent in his training pants.

His head lands back with a thud. Great, now he can't pretend any longer Slade hasn't noticed Jason's reactions yet. Slade will not only think of him as a hopeless case, but as a hopeless, hormone-driven teenager case. He groans, more from the humiliation than the ache in his bones. But when he heaves himself to his side and groans again, he revises that assessment. Definitely from the ache in body, _some_ parts more insistent than others.

His cheeks burn as he cools down and makes his way to the bathroom. He tells himself it's the exertion, not the heavy weight of his shame and his desire pooling low inside him, but at this point he's pretty disillusioned with himself.

Slade couldn't even leave him with that tiny achievement of getting out of that hold alive.

No, he was right not to. Jason shouldn't have let himself get caught in that situation in the first place, so it wasn't an achievement after all.

He still feels Slade's hand around his throat, even more than all the points where his fists and elbows connected. Jason's forearms are numb from blocking the blows.

Worse, he still feels the warm pressure of Slade's body pressed against his own, even when he strips himself of his clothes, even when he washes the sweat from his body. His slippery skin does nothing to banish the unclean thoughts from his mind. If anything, it encourages them.

Jason decreases the heat and grips his cock in one stiff hand. Part of him strains his ears for any sounds entering the bathroom, maybe even the shower stall. He tells himself he does not want to be caught doing this, but really, who is he kidding at this point? That part of him that's running rampant with juvenile sex fantasies wants Slade to join him in the shower, to crowd him against the cold tiles, and to run his strong hands over Jason's body, maybe even take over stroking for him.

Jason is so close he can hardly stand it, but he can't jerk himself fast enough. His arm is too heavy, his hand unable to close properly. In his frustration, he ruts against the tiles, but even that brings him no relief. He pounds his fist against the wall. Still so broken.

Groaning, he lets his forehead connect with the tiles before he turns the water cold. The spray turns to ice in an instant, not even giving him the chance to yelp.

At least it takes care of his 'problem.' For now.

It's too much to hope that it won't be back.

If Jason had thought the first weeks training with Slade were painful, there are only going to be more so from here on out. He can't keep hiding what Slade does to him – like it has worked out that well so far – but he'd rather die than admit to it. Let him think it's just some normal body friction thing.

It probably is. Jason's head's been screwed with for so long, he probably thinks pain is an expression of care.

"You done in there?" Slade knocks on the door.

"Shove off, old man." Jason's said it with a bit more force than necessary, but his cock twitched when he heard Slade's voice, so now he's annoyed at himself all over again.

"Just making sure you didn't drown yourself."

"Is that concern I detect, Slade?"

"Merely concern for my next paycheck."

Finished dressing in the new pair of pants and tank top that Slade had laid out beforehand, Jason rips open the door and slams a sopping wet towel against Slade's chest. "Jesus, Slade, back off already. When have I ever not delivered? No need to babysit me all the time."

He wants to storm off when Slade grabs his wrist to stop him. "Good job today, kid."

Jason merely nods, gaze averted, and shuffles off to his sleeping quarters before Slade can see the blush spreading across Jason's face.

Two minutes later, he comes with a cry smothered by his pillow, head still ringing with the praise he hasn't yet fully digested.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Inside of Me" by Dead by Sunrise.
> 
> This took me half of forever to write and has been lounging at 95% completion for over a week, which is not something that usually happens, but I'm not usually this blocked either. I was thinking of making this longer to include more filth (and the idea that initially started this project), but it didn't really fit with the beginning. Not sure yet if there'll be more.
> 
> Reblog [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/174349212741/fic-masterapprentice-m-3k).


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